St Francis Xavier Academy - Xavier Yearbook (Providence, RI)

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THE XAVIER 21 A small cottage was secured, on the Bloomingdale road, near the edge of a wood, one that because of its being haunted, so the neighbors said, had been unoccupied for some time, and here they began life again. To earn sufficient for the support of an infirm father and herself, she applied for a position as school teacher, and after sometime was appointed to an ungraded school, three miles out in the country. This was an ideal little spot, and from the first day, Dorothy knew she would like it. She always had a great affection for children and here were her wish and desire gratified. She soon became a prime favorite with the pupils and their parents, and one could often catch the charming sight of the young teacher with her children romping through the woodland. It was the last Friday of the Spring term and there was to be an important event. The School Critic, a new one, was to make his tour of inspection. At 2.30 p. m. he arrived, ushered in by a line of boys who had been waiting to meet him. One look at the teacher, a blush, and a slight recognition on her part showed that they had met before. The children acquitted themselves with honor and after dismissal, the critic, Donald Maclvar, turned towards the teacher all the old friendliness leaping to life in voice and manner. “To think that I should have the luck to find you at last— here,’’ he said. “It was cruel of you,’’ he continued, “to drop out of the world, leaving no word, no sign behind for your friends. I was away at the time and have been looking for you ever since.” “I no longer belong to your world,” said Dorothy sadly. “My days belong entirely to my poor, dear father. Indeed, his life is a sad and lonely oneand with an effort she crushed back the rising tears. “Yet, once, I hoped, Dorothy, that you might find me worthy of sharing jour clouds and sunshine. Have you forgotten ?” “I have forgotten nothing, but I will never consent to burden another with the cloak of sorrow that shelters and hides my father and me from your bright world.” “But surely you will not object to my visiting your school?” he said. “Oh no,” she replied gratefully, “It will be a pleasure to remember that my critic is my friend.”

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20 THE XAVIER forgot everything in her anxiety. Following him to the library she found him lying on a couch, his face buried in his trembling hands. Throwing herself on her knees beside him, the poor girl exclaimed, “What is it, papa? Are you ill or in trouble? Tell me, my dearest papa.” ‘‘Dorothy, my little girl,” he said in a broken voice, ‘‘Have you strength to bear a great blow ?” ‘‘Yes, yes, father, anything that will not separate us may be borne.” “Then darling,” he whispered, “We are ruined—quite quite ruined.” “Dearest and best of fathers, tell me all. While we have each other, life can never be entire darkness.” Then he told her the old, old story that has so often re-echoed from Wall Street. That very morning without a thought of such a thing as reverse, he had tried his fortune in a new deal in copper. This was now in a prosperous condition, and receiving a hint from a friend that it would “go high” on the morrow, he bid. Brisk selling for a few minutes drove prices down sharply and afler a few hours of such work, blocks of the stock were transferred from winning to the losing, or from strong to weak hands and pools failed. Losing half his fortune by this, he became reckless, plunged in and attacked the pools again and again. In less than two hours his magnificent capital was swept away as by a torrent, and he had now come to her a beggar. They were both penniless. To her father, who already seemed aged by many years, she said with a brave heart, “Dear father, we will do the best we can. God is with us. He will help us under this great stress.” Dorothy’s mother had left money by will for her child and this now went towards paying the creditors. When everything had been sacrificed except a few remembrances of her childhood, they left the beautiful residence over which the auctioneer’s red flag was already flying, and sought apartments in the lower quarter of the city. Mr. Dorsey from this time forward sank into a gloomy apathy, and let Dorothy do all the planning. As the days went on, his mind, turned by the awful mishap, became a blank, and he a child, ready to do what those around him wished.

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22 THE XAVIER “Remember, too,” he said, as he bowed and turned to go, “that your critic will never accept a final negation to the question that he has so vitally at heart.” He returned to the city with the picture of the rural school teacher strongly before him. He was an exemplary young man, wealthy and of good family, but for the sake of the art he dearly loved had, since his graduation from Columbia been a critic for the State. In the old days he had known Dorothy well, and would have openly declared his affection for her, but feared always to be repulsed. He knew her as a high-strung, impulsive, noble girl, and if he admired her formerly, his admiration was deeply increased by her fine attitude in this present trying condition of things. And what of Dorothy ? Her heart had always inclined toward Don, but now she put this one consolation aside, as being unloyal to her beloved father. Many were the visits from the critic, but whether they were for the benefit of the pupils or the teacher is not known. However, he seemed to make no further progress than at first. The insurmountable barrier as of ice remained the same and with a saddened heart he began to think that her life and his were to run in ever widening channels. In the meantime, what were the thoughts of the teacher? Her father had now become so ill that his end was not far distant, and her great care was for his eternal salvation. At his best, Mr. Dorsey had never been a fervent Catholic, and many years had passed since his feet had trodden the aisles of a Church. This had always been a great trial to his pious wife and to his daughter. She now prayed night and day that God might soften his heart, and finally her prayers availed, for he died a most holy death, after receiving the last Sacraments with fervor and contrition. She alone kept her lonely vigil with the beloved dead, for they had made few friends in their straightened circumstances. On the last night, a gentleman called at the house. One glance was sufficient to let her know who it was. He had read of her bereavement under the heading, “ Death of a well-known Financier,” and had come to offer sympathy and aid.